


Please.

by ChicoryandBananas (Nyah)



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lucifer Feels, POV Lucifer, Spoilers, s5e6, wow with the soundtrack already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyah/pseuds/ChicoryandBananas
Summary: An object in motion will stay in motion unless...and nothing in Heaven or Earth stopped the Morningstar the first time he fell. Coda to s5e6. Spoilers and smut.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 5
Kudos: 114





	Please.

  
  


The elevator chimes just as the Scotch splashes into his stomach, the invigorated flavors and roil of heat telling him as surely as the scent tipping from the elevators that it’s her. A buzz rises in his ears while his face tries on fear and surprise. He had a plan but now she’s here and his conviction telescopes in upon itself. What if he’s made an unforgivable error already?,What if everything between them is as delicate as these mortals’ silly, fragile lives?

But there is Chloe in red, Chloe inviting herself into the Devil’s home like he’s someone to be trusted, like he’s not a monarch one only approaches on bended knee. He’d missed every detail of this life. He knows that even as he stands before her, hardly remembering how to swallow.

“Detective,” he says and hopes she doesn’t notice that it sounds like, “Have mercy.”

“Hi,” she meets his eyes with the barest of smiles. He can see her mind is wound tight around something and it seems a safe bet that it’s him and his latest bout of being blindingly stupid in response to doubt.

The buzzing in his ears spills out as words, explanations and excuses, and, “Have a drink, if that’s what you want.” Hospitality from the Heavenly Host. Ha ha. He surveys the furniture in the wash of blue light off the bar like figuring out where to put his coat might be more important than figuring out how to make things right. This might be what they call  _ panic _ . 

With a few awkward feet between them, the air crackles; he wonders if this is love or if she makes everyone feel like a lightning strike.

“I’m sorry,” they say in harmony and the chord thrums in his bones, the prelude to a symphony that will never be heard in Heaven. 

Explanations bloom. He tells her about following bad advice, she tells him about following old rules. It’s a misunderstanding, the first of many. It doesn’t mean anything except as a few base notes in the melody of how much they mean to each other. She’s twisting her fingers in anguish. “I was nervous,” she says and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, stopping himself from stilling her hands. She has never needed him to fix everything.

Time begins to crystallize while she eyes the ground and makes her anxious explanations of what normal is and how they are not it. He is losing his footing in this phase of reality, zooming too far in on the particles and waves and all the choices that have brought him here. “We’re us,” she concludes, and he can see the sound waves lapping at the molecules of air between them. Her gaze snaps on to his, searing, singing, “We’re incredible.” 

Her body leans into the tidal pull and he wades willingly into the undertow. “I couldn’t agree more.” Times stretches and he can’t believe how long they’re moving toward each other, like hours have squeezed themselves into the space of milliseconds, like the weeks of her life stretched out over his millenia in Hell. He’s giving her all the time in the world to make another choice and she keeps choosing to move nearer to him. 

Seconds from collision, she shakes her head and time resumes its normal march. “Um,” she says. “Oh. Well,” the words are small, sighing sounds announcing reality’s return to normal. She shakes her head again and he realizes with a shock he’d just been standing with her on the precipice of something new. He’s not the only one unsure of his footing. “I, um, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” he says. Instead of, “Wait!” Instead of, “Please.”

They nod at each other reassuringly, smiling like a disaster has been averted instead of a miracle. She moves forward and this time he yields. When her shoulders square to his in passing, terror presses out from the space between them. He thinks about turning back and the scene in his mind end with a pillar of salt. Then a shout of defiance rises in his chest and he will not take another step. No.

He looks up at her over his left shoulder to find her looking back over her right. “Good night,” she says tentatively, pitch taught with hope or regret. Her fingers are twirling like they they’re caught in the slipstream of the fear that burns across his skin. He meets her eyes and then he knows.

They are rushing feet and ragged breaths.

The tether snaps taught. He moves toward her like love is another word for gravity and he’s chosen, once again, to fall. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
